Holes
by star wars for Jesus
Summary: Asked to prevent a notorious cult from aiding the Separatists, Obi-Wan Kenobi finds himself caught between two old flames: Siri Tachi, and Satine Kryze.
1. Chapter 1

_**(AHSOKA)**_

There are more eloquent ways to express my feelings toward this particular task. There are. But I'm just gonna come out and put it bluntly, say it loud and clear: _this is dumb_.

No, that's putting it too lightly. Too mildly. Because this—this is the _dumbest_ thing I've ever put my hand to, is biggest waste of breath and effort that I've ever seen. And trust me, I've encountered some pretty moronic things, things that would make you groan and bury your face in your hands.

I'm pounding nails—hundreds of them—into a plain, wooden board. And not because I'm building something, either. Not because I'm constructing something useful, worthwhile: I'm simply nailing them in, piece by piece, until my not-so-dainty heap has run out. Until I've exhausted it. Or myself—though I'm not quite sure. This _is_ Skyguy's idea, after all, and I'm beginning to believe he assigned me this endless task for the sole purpose of getting me out of his hair.

Or maybe it's like he said: he wants me to think. Mull over things. Turn them over in my mind.

If only I knew what _they_ were.

And if only my master was actually here, too—here to answer that. He's…well, I'm not quite certain _where_ he is, actually. Neither is Master Kenobi, which is odd. I mean, they're close, those two, are as inseparable as blue from a clear summer sky. Are almost a single being, melded together by hardship endured and shared; so Kenobi being unaware of Skyguy's location means he either doesn't know the man quite as well as he believes…or he's feigning ignorance.

Because he doesn't _want_ to tell me.

Or he wishes to believe that he's in the dark, too.

Either way, though, I'm beginning to tire of this. My hands are sore, tired, aching—and are oozing from a dozen different blisters. I've got a crick in my neck, a deep, deep one that snakes down from my nape to my shoulder, and I'm starting to develop some cramps. In my lower back. In my upper back. In my butt; you name it, and it pleading for me to get up, to do something—_anything_—as long as I'm free to walk around.

Chin dropping to my chest, I let out a weary groan. "Am I _done_ yet?"

Across the room, Obi-Wan peels open an eye. He's been seated atop a mediation pad this entire time, his legs drawn beneath him like furled, waiting leaves, and until now I'd thought he might've nodded off. Slipped into dream-land. But he's awake, apparently, and shows me a tiny smile. "The sole fact that you have asked this question likely implies that you _aren't_, padawan."

"And how am I supposed to know when to stop asking questions?"

The smile broadens. "When you see the answer. Before it, all questions die away."

Well, duh. "How do I know what I'm looking for, then? It's not like you or Skyg—uh, Master Skywalker—are handing out hints."

"You'll know when you see it, padawan. After all, seeing isn't believing." With a friendly wink, his open eye drifts closed. "Believing is _seeing_. Knowing. Recognizing. Meeting something face-to-face and realizing '_so it was this all along.'_"

Wow. That sounded downright philosophical. Sage-like, even—and infuriatingly vague. "Let me get this straight: I won't know that I know until—"

A sharp, insistent beeping cuts me off, mid-sentence. Except it's not just any trill, bleeping sound: after years of exposure, I instantly recognize it as a comm.-link. One that's pleading, _begging_ to be answered, and hiding within Obi-Wan's homely tunic. He shows me an apologetic look—like I'm sorry that he's given me something else to focus, something besides nailing this vaping board—then plucks it from his clothes. Answers it, crisp and clear.

"Kenobi."

"_Hello, Obi-Wan_," a voice crackles through mild static. "_This is Master Tachi—Siri Tachi. I know it's been a while, but…well, I find myself in need of some help. Help only you can give."_

Kenobi's face registers a modicum of shock, and he stutters for a moment, tongue grappling for words. But not for long, though; he's a blasted good actor, Kenobi. So it's unsurprising that he collects himself in only a matter of seconds, maintaining his detached, self-contained Jedi reserve. "May I ask what sort of trouble you've managed to get yourself into this time?"

"_Big trouble, Obi-Wan. Remember the Bando-gora cult, the one started by that moron Komari Vosa?"_

Legs unfurling and pushing him to his feet, Obi-Wan shows me a smile that has to be totally, one-hundred percent manufactured. "How about you take a break, Ahsoka? You've had enough nailing for the day."

I frown a little at that. Part of me wants to respond, "_enough nailing? I've hammered enough blasted nails for the both of us, Mr. Sage!_ But the other side of me, the logical, grounded part of my mind, is more than willing to oblige to his request; I _have_ had enough, after all. Enough for a lifetime, in fact. Except…well, I'm itching to hear what this other Jedi—this "Master Tachi"—has to say, and what this "Bando-gora" business is about. Or why it's relevant to Master Kenobi in the first place.

But then again, there _is_ such a thing as eaves-dropping.

"Um. Yeah. Sure, Master Kenobi." I get up to my feet, feign a tentative look. "Er, what time do you want me back?"

Kenobi shrugs, suddenly nonchalant and distinctly un-Kenobi-like. "As long as you're back here before Anakin returns, I'm happy. Now…run along."

And I do. Sort of. I hurry out the door, yes, my leeku bobbing with pent-up energy—but as the door hisses shut, I'm pressing my ear to it. Straining to catch whatever I can of this not-so-routine conversation.

"My apologies, Siri," he's saying, voice abruptly strained. Haggard. Weary. Worn, worn to the bone. "Anakin's asked me to watch his padawan for a few hours, and I didn't wish her to overhear any of this. Especially that bit about the Bando-gora." A pause. "Komari Vosa…she was Dooku's apprentice, correct? Before she expelled from the Order, that is."

_"She was. And her getting expelled—that had a lot to do with the fact that she had a bit of thing for her Master. It even escalated to the point of obsession."_

"And then she initiated the Bando-gora, as retribution?"

"_Not as revenge, no. That cult was more of a 'please notice me, Dooku. I'm getting lonely out here. She was getting kinda tired of having her only love pretend she didn't exist, I guess."_

Obi-Wan drags in a long, deliberate breath. "That's an awful feel…that must've been hard on her."

"_The Bando-gora were hard on _a lot_ of beings, Obi-Wan,_" she points out. _ "On innocent beings-women and children included."_

A sigh. "I know, Siri. Please continue."

"_There's not much else to explain, I'm afraid. Except that the Bando-gorans have found a new reason to get up in the morning: they're arms dealers. To gangsters, bounty hunters. To Hutts. And—this where we come in—to the Separatists._"

Mouth agape, I stifle a baffled gasp. Oh. _Oh_.

"And where I do come in, Siri?"

"_You've heard of the Council of Neutral Systems before, right? Because our cultist friends certainly have, and they've decided to capitalize on this knowledge by setting up base on neutral worlds. In doing this, they've acquired a sort of immunity from the Jedi—the Senate won't sanction meddling with pacific worlds in wartime—so I want you to help me personally appeal to the CNS._" An audible hesitation. "_You still have ties with Mandalore, right?_"

"We are," he answers slowly. Tentatively. "But it's…it's complicated, Siri. Our relations with Mandalore are, at best, tenuous. One wrong stroke, and they'll sever themselves from us permanently."

"_And are your relations with Mandalore similarly fragile?_"

He grunts. "Probably even more so, if you can believe that. Technically, you could label the Duchess of Mandalore as one of my allies—but she's very touch-and-go, Siri. Her views on the war are…different…and as Jedi, we embody that conflict. To her, _we_ can assume the role of the enemy."

"_Anyone can, Obi-Wan._"

"Yes, but that truth appears to have conveniently slipped her mind. And she's stubborn in that ignorance, Siri. Remarkably so."

"_More stubborn than me?_"

He chuckles ruefully. "Yes, perhaps more than you. I've known her for quite a while, you know."

"_Qui-Gon mentioned that you two were friends, once._"

An awkward descends upon the room, pervading it like clouds of night smoke. It's not a long one, mind you—by my guess, it's only ten-to-fifteen seconds—but it's long enough. Long enough to hesitate, to sit there, frozen, as thoughts whiz by. Long enough for doubts to slither closer, threading their way between your iron-clad defenses.

Long enough to reconsider.

"We were," he finally replies, clearing his throat. Loudly. "And perhaps we still are; the truth is, I'm not entirely certain where we stand. But if I was able to go in and talk to her, say, in an informal setting, she might be little more open. A little less…well, like _you_, Siri."

"_But a moment ago, you acted as though any contact with her might threaten our connections with Mandalore."_

"That was because I was bringing you," he points out evenly. "And you represent the Jedi. And Jedi represent the Republic, which is currently occupied with a particularly bloody war—a war she loathes with her entire being. But me, alone? She'll simply see me as an old friend she who wants to catch up over, say…tea?"

"_I should've guessed. You haven't changed much in all these years, Master Kenobi."_

"Yes. Well. I wish I could say the same of you, Siri." He sighs, long and tellingly slow. "But…ah, never mind. Should we rendezvous somewhere before I contact The Duchess, or afterward?"

"_Afterwards. Wouldn't be much use doing it before, you know."_

"My thoughts exactly, old friend. So hopefully, I'll be meeting you an hour and a half from now, and…" Another lingering hesitation. "And Siri?"

_"Yeah?_"

"May the force be with you: I have a feeling you're going to need it."

_"We'll _both_ be needing it, Obi-Wan. Siri, out._"

Judging by the tiny _bleep_ I catch, the link is disconnected, going totally silent. Still. Voiceless. Then I hear boots thudding a staccato tune across the floor, drawing closer with every strum of heel on ground, and a moment later the door hisses open. Revealing Obi-Wan's haggard—then bemused—then downright _vexed_—face.

"_Ahsoka_." His tone is low, slicing through the still air. But it's not a growl, hasn't descended that far. Not yet. "I should've guessed."

Mouth robbed of all moisture, I can only stare through him. Because really, what _can_ I say? Except for hurried, insincere apologies, nothing's coming to mind, and the sheer potency of his gaze is robbing all chance of formulating any other responses. Or any words at all, actually. So I simply wait for him to make the first move, watch quietly while drags a hand down his face.

He shakes his head. "Although I'm well aware that I should, I'm not in the mood to punish you for eaves-dropping. As you've heard—or rather, overheard-I've more pressing issues to attend to." Sighing, he steps past me into the hall, showing me only back and hanging, wearied head. "Just…take that break I offered you. Or better yet, get back those nails."

As his back recedes down the hall, I want to offer some retort to that last bit. To the part about getting back to my nails. And I know it'd be rude, too, considering he's just saved my skin—but I have to ask it. Have to ask it aloud, even if my sol audience is the sleeping, ivory halls:

"You gave me a hint, didn't you?"

___**(SIRI)**_

Odd, how Coruscant never has season. I suppose this makes sense, though; after all, the planet is one hulking, stretching city, its metallic exoskeleton masking all trace of nature. No ground to be seen, to touch with shoeless feet. No plants to grace the harsh, alloy world with kisses fresh and green. And no spring to make all things new, to caress shriveled things out of winter's icy slumber.

That's the even stranger part, really. Because here, on Coruscant, it's always spring. It's perpetual, incessant. Eternal. No winters ever descend upon our world, never dress it in azure ice and fluffy, carpeted snow—so really, there never is a spring. Ever.

To have spring, you must first have a winter.

Of course, I'm not actually _in_ Coruscant's perpetual non-spring. I'm not. No, I holed up within my quarters, blinds drawn and lights dimmed, with no hint at the appearance of the outside world. And yes: I could simply unfurl myself from my meditation mat, open the blinds, and gaze out at golden day. At non-spring. But for some reason, I decide against it, waiting instead for Obi-Wan in quiet, enclosed darkness.

I almost wish I hadn't contacted him. Hadn't asked him to meet me here, in my private quarters. Yeah, it's not like anything's going to happen—we're barely friends anymore, much less the lovers we once were—but I'm dreading his arrival nonetheless. Him seeing me in here, cocooned in shadows and walls…no, I don't want that. His perception of me must be one of strength, self-reliance, ice. No weaknesses. No faults. Just Siri, the capable, no-nonsense Jedi.

Not the newly-eighteen-year-old girl who can barely look him in the eye.

Lucky for me, I have plenty of time to shove that girl aside. To apply the façade. To perfect the part—and for at least half an hour, that's what I do. Until a soft knock sounds at my door, threatening to unravel all the practice and veneers.

"Obi-Wan, is that you?" I ask, clearing my throat.

"No, Siri," he answers, deadpan. "It's the Queen of Naboo, here to deliver a spot of tabba root tea…"

He's always been so wry, this man. "Alright, then. Come on in; the door's unlocked."

On cue, the door hisses open, spilling in waves of watery light. I blink against it, struggling to adjust my eyes to the change, but I can hardly make him out. Save for his dramatic silhouette, he is practically nonexistent, and he steps gingerly into my room. As if its substance will diminish him, the shadow.

And this is how I like it, when it comes to him. Dealing with faces, with countenances lit and lifted to the sun—that's all forgotten. Here, there are only shapes, scarcely definable in the dank light; here, he cannot see me, glimpse at what lies beneath the façade.

Here, we cannot gaze into the past.

As the door slides shut, Obi-Wan lowers himself to the floor, tentatively. And guess what? That thing about the tea—turns out he was being serious. I can hear porcelain clack in the shadows, make out tiny, tiny _clinks _as he pours our separate cups, enveloping me in rich, earthy tea-scent.

"Hope you're thirsty," he says, handing me my cup.

Closing my fingers about its stubby base—and obstinately ignoring its immediate, seeping warmth—I arch a brow. "I thought you already had plans for tea. With the Duchess."

Even in the dim light, I can make out his charmingly boyish grin. "Yes. Well, tea shouldn't be relegated as a once-a-day activity." He takes a sip, expression still holding that playful appeal. "Besides, contacting my Duchess friend forced me to skip lunch. Don't want me fainting on the way there, after all."

"And what did your 'friend' have to say about my proposition?"

"She was a tad hesitant," he admits, taking another sip, "but she's agreed to meet with me. On one condition."

Cup half-raised to my lips, I pause, bemused. "Oh?"

"We were talking, and…ah, I believe she must've sensed that I wasn't discussing this Bando-gora affair with her of my own accord. So she asked who put me up to it, and I admitted that I was on Jedi business—and that you were the Jedi who'd lassoed me into this." Sighing, he sets aside his cup. "She wants you to accompany me to the meeting."

Taking a pull of what turns out to be anemic—and yet surprisingly bitter—tea, I frown. Or perhaps scowl is a better word. A more appropriate one. Because earlier today, me _not_ being able to accompany him was the problem of the day, and now that I'm permitted to he seems…regretful. Like he's ruing something, something big, but I can't put a finger onto what it might possibly be.

Weird.

Disgusted with Obi-Wan's tea—and perhaps more than that—I shove my cup to the side. "There's something you're not telling me."

"Besides the fact that you're a dreadful negotiator?"

"Yes, Obi-Wan. Besides that." My frown/scowl/whatever deepens. "Or is that what's got you bothered?"

He picks up his cup once more, as if hiding behind its adorned rim. "Perhaps. When it comes to the subtleties of politics, you don't have the most impressive track record."

"So you're afraid I'll screw this up."

"Perhaps," he says again, but this time his tone carries a guarded, leery flavor. "Let's face it: we haven't exactly been on good terms since the Talesian…incident. You've been very distant. Closed. And no matter how hard I try to get in, you won't allow it." The cup returns to his lap with a barely audible _clink_. "I'm suppose I'm asking that for once, we put our differences aside and trust one another—implicitly. No bickering. No closed doors. We present a united front for the Duchess, and that's that."

"You're asking," I say carefully, "that we be friends again."

He shakes his head, hurriedly. "No, I don't believe that would be a good idea—as much I'd like that. You can't force something that, especially in a handful of hours." He leans forward, so that only a foot or so of chill air separates us. Divides us. Splits us apart like fracturing bone. "But for today, it'd be best if we pretended. If you're seen as my friend, she'll take more kindly to you."

"Yes." Yes, Obi-Wan. Let's pretend. Let's go back to those simple days, when we were too young entangle ourselves with feelings, and let's toss everything aside. "I mean, sounds like a plan. Can't wait to get started."

Pretending, after all, hurts a lot less than the alternative.


	2. Chapter 2

_**(SATINE)**_

Bathed in golden Coruscant light, I find myself wishing the planet had winter. I really, really do. I want to see the world blanketed in downy, spotless snow, graced with scintillating glory of ice under waning sun; I want to see it frozen, frozen to the core. That way, perhaps the pains of spring—new life forming only to waste away at winter's first breath—could be avoided.

But then again, there's no spring here, either.

Strange.

Yet it's not as odd as me nestled into a drowsy tea shop, heart hammering as I watch a pair of plainly-garbed being amble toward me. One is familiar, achingly so, the mere sight of his auburn hair and muscled frame setting me ablaze; and one isn't. She's a stranger, an alien to both memory and eyes. And she's—dare I say it—surprisingly beautiful. Not in a refined, regal way; her hair's wild and blond, and the body-suit stretched across her body accentuates hard, lean muscles that most women don't know they have. But she's alluring nonetheless, with her fierce blue eyes and sculpted features, and as she and her partner reach my table, I find myself feeling more than a little inadequate.

And then _he_ meets my gaze, ensnaring me with azure silk. Yes. Yes, this is why I came: to meet him once more, to melt yet again under his attention. Under his hands, melding gently to me—but I know this is nigh on impossible. Even if we weren't in a public place. Even if that sultry blond at his side wasn't here, wasn't scrutinizing me with those feral eyes…because he's moved on. Let me go.

And I'm fighting hard not to.

"Master Kenobi," I say, fighting long and hard not to release some girlish moan. Extending a hand for him to…do what, exactly? Shake? Take into his own, sheath it in his warmth? No, he does something else, something off the wall: taking my hand, he plants a light kiss on its surface, fanning my hidden flame with his moist, velvet lips.

"My thanks for allowing this meeting, Duchess," he says, peering over my hand like a coquettish little boy. His fingers linger on mine for a moment that seems to stretch, stretch into eternity before he takes away his hand. Uses it to gesture toward his partner. To the severe-looking blond. "This is my old friend and fellow Jedi, Master Tachi."

Letting my hand drop back to my side, I consider her. Tachi. _Master_ Tachi—but then again, he refrained from using Satine, too. And I called him _Master Kenobi_, so…well, I suppose I started something. A very formal, frigid trend.

Except trends are easily forgotten. "It's a pleasure, Master Tachi. A friend of Obi-Wan's is a friend of mine."

I fix him with a penetrating stare, daring him to follow-suit. To break my trend. To ruffle some feathers and pretend as though twelve years of scars and ice haven't forced us apart, haven't killed the newness with winter-breath—but he doesn't. He simply blushes (it's charming, the way he does that), coughs tightly into his hand. "Yes. Well. Master Tachi, meet Duchess Satine Kryze, leader of both Mandalore and the Council of Neutral Systems. She's an ally of the Jedi, and…a very good friend."

Tachi gives me a curt nod, brow raised. Yes, she caught it: his hesitation. His pause. Which could mean practically anything, I suppose, except surety in our relationship. "It's a pleasure as well, Duchess. I hear you have some connections that might help me solve an, ah, _problem_." Her gaze strays toward Obi-Wan. "I trust Master Kenobi has briefed you on the Bando-goran situation?"

I risk a glance at him, nod. "He has. But I'm afraid that persuading the CNS to interfere in this matter will…difficult."

Obi-Wan settles into a nearby seat, leaning as far against his back as he can. "Oh?"

"They're war-profiteers," I explain. "Any actions the CNS takes against them will be seen as violating our neutrality—as eliminating Separatists, who are known enemies of your Republic." I pull another one of my I-Dare-You-React faces, aim it at him. "Honestly, I'm surprised you hadn't already anticipated this, Obi-Wan."

"And I'm surprised that you didn't inform me of this when I first asked for this meeting."

I lower myself into a chair, too—one that's directly facing his. "Shortly before you arrived, I had to contact the CNS, make sure if this proposition of yours would be legitimate. And they told me what I've just told you now: that I cannot aid you."

It's true, too. A half an hour before Obi-Wan and the platinum beauty strolled in, I'd talked with a few of my fellow neutralists, asked them whether or not I could go through with this—and, of course, they'd vetoed it. Had thrown it back in my face, extinguishing all hope of my helping Obi-Wan. Of lending aid to a friend…or whatever he is.

Remaining on her feet, Master Tachi folds her arms across her full (fuller than mine, anyway) chest. "Would there be any chance of pursuing this without the CNS' knowledge?"

I lift a brow. "You wish to be behind their back?"

"No. Not exactly. I…" She sighs, shoves her hands in the pockets of her body-suit. "Yeah, I suppose I do. But if Obi-Wan and I were to take care of it, privately—"

"Take care of it _how_, precisely?" Obi-Wan interjects. "The two of us can't possibly take on a movement as large as the Bando-gora. Even with an entire Jedi strike team, it would be suicide." He lowers his voice to a leery whisper before he adds, "what if they have someone like Vosa in their ranks, Siri?"

Brows climbing up my forehead, I risk a glance at the blond Jedi. So it's Siri, then. Not just _Master Tachi_. "Who's this…'Vosa', Obi-Wan?"

He and Siri exchange a glance before he shakes his head. "I'm afraid that's confidential, Duchess. All I can tell you is that she was a very dangerous individual, and that you should consider yourself fortunate that she's dead."

All my strength is required to keep from reacting to the word "Duchess". Because I've called him by his name twice now, have broken boundaries and shattered ice—but he's not taking the bait. He's not biting, rising to the occasion; rather, he's simply sitting there, taking me in without a hint of acknowledgment. Without a sign that he's blazing within, his heart aflame with the same sleepless thrill.

He has brought winter to non-spring.

But Siri doesn't appear to catch what's going on between us—either that, or she's smart enough to feign ignorance. What she is doing, though, puts me on edge: she's scanning the area, probing it with her haunting sky-gaze. As if she's sensed something neither of us have, is awash with a deadly aura that could spring, leap from the shadows. "I'm not suggesting we take care of this entire…problem…Obi-Wan. I'm not. It's just that groups such as the Bando-gora tend to react as one—whether it be against a single threat or, say…a preemptive strike?"

Obi-Wan stiffens, goes all ice. "A preemptive strike would provoke a counter-attack, Siri. Against us. And we can't afford that—not when there's still a war to fight."

"They wouldn't have to know it was us," Siri points out, finally settling into a seat. Beside Obi-Wan. "If we made it look like a Black Sun attack, the Bando-gora would probably lash out against one of their syndicates."

"And then we'd have a gang war on our hands."

"A gang war that would take care of our problem, actually. Think of it: for all their skill, the Bando-gora have always been low on numbers. The Black Sun would _smear_ them."

"That seems terribly under-handed, but…" Fingering his beard, he considers Siri with an aggravatingly neutral expression. "Dare I say it, but that actually sounds like a good plan, Siri. Our only problem is making it into a neutral system with enough weapons to stage an assault—with enough _Black Sun-ish_ weapons, moreover." Reaching across our table, he covers my hands with his own. Holds them there. Allows them to linger lightly, while somehow managing to crush me in a wave of my own swelling, urgent need…for _him_. "Satine…is it possible that we could accompany you to a neutral world? We wouldn't be appearing as Jedi loyal to the Republic; we'd be more like Jedi ambassador who happen to have neglected to carry their lightsabers. Or any weapons at all, really."

Something inside me quickens, warming at his touch. Thawing. Because he's finally said it: Satine. Satine, Satine, Satine. And even though I can sense that he's doing this out of need, is using me for the sake of duty, I can't help but feel as though we've mended the gap between us. That abyss of time and years and bitter memory. "And how do you suppose you'll actually _acquire_ any weapons to stage this assault?"

Gaze once more roving the now (mostly) empty tea shop, Siri pulls a fierce grin. "Leave that to me, Duchess. I have certain…resources."

Obi-Wan's hands slide away, but his sparkling, boyish gaze never leaves mine. Not for a moment. In fact, I'm not entirely certain that he's even blinked—or thought about blinking. "Yes, Siri tends to be resourceful when comes to acquiring munitions, so don't worry over that. All you need do is provide with a way to one of the Bando-goran systems, and you can leave."

"And then what?"

"And then," he replies, all charisma and suave, sultry timbre, "we'll do what we Jedi do best."

I know I shouldn't. I _know_. After all, it's like he said: it seems under-handed. Dirty. Seedy—and perhaps it is. But some part of me, the needy, ravenous side that craves his affections, is urging me toward a different route. Down a new, uncharted path.

I pull a fetching little smile. "Then go and do your worst."

_**(SIRI)**_

It's kinda frustrating, how people are always expecting you not to judge. I mean, how can you_ not_? Even those disillusioned beings—the ones demanding, screaming that you don't pass judgement—will go ahead and condemn you for…anything. Even wearing the wrong sort of facial expression.

So obviously, I can't help but be a little critical of Duchess Kryze. Or Satine. Or whatever—after all, I'm not all that certain where she and Obi-Wan stand. But given the sway he held over her, lighting her with a single, scintillating look, I'm beginning to wonder if she has them standing somewhere…inaccessible. That can go nowhere but down, down, down to twilit oblivion.

If I am winter, forever bound within icy bars, then Satine is caught in the dead of summer.

Speaking of Satine…

That's where we're headed now, Obi-Wan and I. Well, not _now_, exactly: once more cocooned within the dim light of my quarters, I have yet to venture outside. And so does Obi-Wan, I'm betting—although I'm not entirely sure _where_ he is within the temple. Until a hushed, tentative knock sounds at my door, that is.

Sighing, I rise to open the blasted thing, then pause. I really should quit letting him in, allowing him to stroll right in my most intimate place. I should. But then winter breathes in my ear, reminding me that as long as I stay frozen, unthawed, I'll be safe. Impervious to his empty promises, so I go ahead and let him in. Only—only he simply remains planted to the floor, worrying at his lip till I think he'll draw blood.

My head cants to one side, taking him in. "Something wrong?"

"I'm…not sure, actually. But something doesn't seem right." He bits down on his lip, hard. "You recall that tea shop we met Satine at yesterday?"

"It was just yesterday, so yeah. I do. But what of it?"

Obi-Wan goes…well, wan. Ashen. White as the heart of a star, but not nearly as hot. Just tepid. "Someone was assassinated there, Siri. And although we've confirmed that it's not her, the body bears a suspicious resemblance to Satine."

I blink. "So you're saying…"

"Yes, Siri: I'm saying that we were overheard yesterday. And judging by the carnage, this person went at great lengths to impede us from taking action against the Bando-gora."

I release a pent-up breath, blowing my jagged bangs away from my face. Well, well, well. Isn't _this_ a surprise? I mean, it's not like discussing secrets in public places is a good way to disclose sensitive material or anything—which is why I allowed it, I guess. To antagonize any Bando-gora sleeper cells (there's a heap of them still lingering here, on Coruscant), to stir something up.

I wanted them to make some sort of attempt on the Duchess' life.

I wanted them to _attack_ her.

Not that I'd intended for _this_ to occur, mind you. Heck, I didn't even _anticipate_ it; I was blind-sided, knocked off-kilter by forces unseen. All I wanted—what I was trying to accomplish, anyway—was for the Bando-gora to make some sort of preemptive strike against the Duchess, necessitating a counter-strike from her homeworld.

I wanted Mandalore to do the dirty work for us.

Because in the end, Black Sun was my plan be—and they would've been too volatile to depend on, anyway. Too unpredictable. So I'd gone into that meeting with the intention of drawing unfriendly eyes, of allowing someone—anyone—to overhear our conversation…and I'd never once given thought to who was winding up as collateral.

I'd never imagined that anyone would pay for my short-sightedness with blood.

But I can't allow this to get out, reach anyone's ears. Not to the Council's. Not to Satine's—and definitely not Obi-Wan's. After all, I could tell that he wasn't overly fond of my Black Sun idea, could sense it simmering just beneath his skin. Beneath his surface—so this…this would send him over the edge. Would set him ablaze, and not in the good, skin-on-skin way (not that we ever did that, though).

So I merely take this in, unblinking. "Have you been able to get a hold of the actual Duchess?"

His shoulders sag. "Unfortunately, no. Not yet. But I'll keep trying—and meanwhile, I need you to do something for me."

"Yeah, sure. What is it?"

"I want you to call off this entire Band-gora affair. It's getting…risky. Very, very much so." He runs a hand through his hair, brushing it away from his stark eyes. And that's when I see it: the grey. Silver mingling with his bright, bright copper, lapping at it with the weight of years and struggles untold. With things undisclosed, and long-withheld. "And above all, it imperils beings—beings we _need_, Siri. Important ones."

I know it's not fair, but I can't help but snort derisively at his remark. "Jedi don't _need_ anyone, Obi-Wan. We serve the Republic with ourselves, with our very lives; so it's they who're the needy ones. Not vice versa."

"We may be made to serve, yes," says Obi-wan, voice oddly subdued, "but we were never intended to go at it alone."

There's a thing about prison, though, a stipulation that courses through it, unseen: it can only hold one. Others can look in, yes, can peer through the bars like weak sunlight slanting through—but they can't be there. Can't be with you, chained to an un-answering wall, so I don't even bother to try and open my cell. Unlocking it, spreading the doors wide to let in the morning rays—it'll only worsen things, complicate them. And that's _definitely_ something I can't handle—especially within the cell.

But since there is no entering, there is also no escape.

"Then watch me," I retort, pushing past him. "I'm—"

"No, you're not," he says, catching my wrist. His other hand finds my shoulder, rests there. "Siri, what aren't you telling me about the Bando-gora? Komari Vosa…is she really dead?"

To my own disgust, I don't immediately shrug his hand away. Actually, I kinda _like_ it. There. On my shoulder. "You were the one who report that that bantha-wart Ventress was using her lightsabers."

"You and I both know that hardly means a thing."

"Okay, okay. Let me think…" My eyes roll upward, as if the void sheen of the ceiling holds some sort of answer. "According to a report I read, she was done in by a bounty hunter, but I don't believe his/her name was included.

"And who wrote this report?"

"Master Pong Krell, if I'm not mistaken. But don't bother trying to interview him or anything: he's off-world. In the Haruun Kal sector, cleaning up Master Billaba's mess."

He fingers idly at his beard. "What about Master Krell's Padawan, Culmon Ash? Do you think she might have some insight into this?"

I shrug, hapless. "She's worth a shot, but…ah, weren't you just suggesting that give up this whole Bando-bora crap thingy a second ago? Or was I hallucinating?"

"You weren't, trust me." He tries at a little levity, attempt one of his infamous half-smiles—and fails miserably. "What I'm interested in is damage control: making certain that the Duchess—and anyone else unfortunate enough to have been caught up in this fiasco—are protected from whoever was desperate enough to snipe that woman. And by investigating this further, you might gain some insight into who that might be."

_I_ might be able to? "You're not coming with me, then."

"I have more…pressing…matters to attend to," he answers sheepishly—and leaves it at.


	3. Chapter 3

_**(SATINE)**_

Sometimes, by some miracle—or curse—what we want most in life eludes us. We want it to be day, want the sun in all its distant glory, but we get night; we want light, brilliance, but we get dark. We want to live, to linger on for times innumerable and beyond that—then we die.

We want death, but all we get is life.

Not that I'm suicidal, mind you. I'm just tired. Weary. And ironically, sleep is the one thing that slips from my grasp; even nestled within my posh, Coruscanti apartment, I've been awake for most of the night.

Then again, add night to that list of things Coruscant is devoid of. Because there isn't any, not here. There is simply soft twilight, its dark breast still aglow with the lights of countless windows, headlights, and streetlamps, and it doesn't last nearly long enough.

It's the dead of false-night, and already the dark is beginning to ebb.

Sighing, I extricate myself from my sheets, step lightly onto the floor. I grab my robe, slipping it on as I pad across the chill floor—but it's a just in case, really. Not like anyone is here to _see_ me in my nightgown, after all. My apartment is jet black, hushed, devoid of movement save for my own wordless shadow—so I'd be hard-pressed to find eyes drinking in my revealing state.

That is, until my eyes land on a shape in the living room window, frozen there as if it's painted to the glass. As if it's echoing me, going stock still as I stare down a newcomer. As if it isn't alive or breathing or moving—but it is. I _know_ it is, can see the silhouette of a turned back stir with each breath, watch a head crane around to catch a whisper of twilight.

"I scared you, didn't I?"

With that, I'm back to embodying what I want least: I'm pure, vibrant flame. I melt, puddle on the floor. Drip onto it in simmering, languid ribbons that want to rush toward the sound—because it's his voice. _His_ voice, the one I crave during the silent watches of the night. The one that has my heart dancing wildly beneath my breast, ready to leap into his tender hands.

Obi-Wan's head swivels back toward Coruscant's dim panorama. "You're dressed, right?"

Dressed? Yes, Obi-Wan. Yes, I am—but I'd rather not be. I'd rather be fully melted, melding with you in a crescendo of skin and tangled sheets. "I am, and you did."

Twisting at the waist, he gives me a quizzical stare. "Did what?"

"You scared me. Fantastically."

He chuckles ruefully. "Sorry about that, my dear. But what's life without a few pleasant surprises?"

"You assume that I find you pleasant, then."

"Yes. Well, one can only hope." Sobering, he steps away from the window, facing me fully. "But I know one thing: whoever's after you—whether it be a he, a she, or an it—hasn't found you yet. And that is why you are still able to talk to me, my dear."

The edges of my molten pool begin to congeal, turn solid. "So you heard about that woman."

"I did. I have Siri—Master Tachi—investigating it as we speak." He clasps his hands behind his back, looking as if he's a toy soldier who dreams to be real. "In the meantime, I'll make sure that our mystery assassin doesn't hit his mark."

"And you've called off the Bando-gora business, I hope."

"For the moment, yes. But who knows? This assassin might not even be linked to them." He clears his throat. "But enough talk. You really should be getting your rest, after all."

As if I was actually asleep before all this. "If it's alright with you, I'll just stay here awhile. Keep you company."

He opens his mouth as if to spit out a hasty refusal, then clamps it shut. Appears to consider it. Flashes a glance at me, at the a nearby couch, at me again—all without so much as breathing. He's always had that gift, you know: being still, unperturbed. "I suppose I could do with some company for a moment or two. Conversing with you certainly beats prattling on to the furniture."

Spreading myself across the closest couch, I indulge in a witty smile. "Good to know that I interest you more than inanimate objects."

"Good to know you're still one for remarkable come-backs."

"Likewise, my old friend." Stifling a yawn (so sleep isn't that far-off after all…), I look up at him evenly. "Speaking of friends, how long have you known Si—Master Tachi? You two seem to go way back."

He stiffens. "A long time. Too long ago, really."

Interest flares. "How so?"

"It was…" His gaze veers away, bouncing from ceiling to floor to his own scuffed boots. "Our friendship was a long time ago, Satine. It's passed on."

"You introduced her as your friend at the meeting," I point out.

"She _is_ my friend," he insists, turning once more to the sleeping window. "But I'm not hers. Not any longer."

"Why not?"

His sigh is weary—and echoes with pain undisclosed. "Because that's just how things are, Satine. And how they always will be, I suspect."

"And will that be how it will always be with us?"

His head snaps around, abruptly alive and real and _here_. "Excuse me?"

Drawing my knees to my chest, I meet his incredulous stare dead-on. "You heard me, Obi-Wan. Because I know that you're _my_ friend—but I can't be all that certain that I'm _yours_."

"I think," he replies, voice heavy with deadly serenity, "that you and I define the word 'friend' very differently."

Hugging my robe against my chest, I let my head drop onto my knees. So he gets it. He understands, grasps that somewhere I'm both burning and bleeding for him—but he won't match that fire. Not for anything. No, I sense that he's purposefully dousing his flames, holding them at bay for—

"Siri," I gasp, head snapping upright. "You're in love with Siri."

Rather than merely go rigid like before, Obi-Wan freezes. Completely. Inside and out, without and within—it's all ice, unmoving and fragile and painfully beautiful. "Like I said, it was a long time ago."

"What was? When you were friends? Or when you two were…something more?"

He shrugs indifferently. "That's for you to decide." He steps away from the window, peers at me and the couch through the distance and the dark. "Is it alright if I—"

"Yes!" I exclaim, brightening. Except that sounded a little _too_ eager. Too desperate, even, like I've been waiting for him to ask all night. Which isn't far from the truth, I suppose—but still. "I mean, yes. Of course. Have a seat, Obi-Wan."

Biting his lip, he settles beside me, leg brushing mine. And although I want to believe that he's doing this because he really is matching my fire, is rising with me to that oh-so-distant crescendo, I know this isn't the case. It just isn't—because his fire's not intended for me. The inferno is merely redirected, mingling with mine because he's deliberately guiding it there, because he wants to deny what I said. Wants so badly to ignore the truth that he's willing to weave a lie.

He wants to believe that he's not in love with Siri.

Because he can't have her.

But he can have me.

Or, at least I wish he would. I really do. So to help things along, I lean in close, innocently "unaware" that my robe has fallen partially open…and rest a hand on his knee. "Give me your mind."

Miraculously, his gaze locks on me _without_ straying to my open lapel. "What-?"

"Ah…" Actually, I don't know where that came from. Or why I'm playing the temptress, my hand inching from his knee to his thigh. Or why I even believe I still have a chance with him; after all, I was the one who let him go, who allowed him to slip through my bleeding fingers. Who set him free. So to want him again…it's not natural. Almost surreal, as if my thoughts have been invaded by another. "I'm sorry, Obi-Wan. For all of this. Let me get dressed, and we'll forget that this ever—"

One minute, I'm cut off midsentence by the soprano scream of shattering glass and blasterfire; the next, I'm on the floor, breath knocked from my lungs. Obi-Wan's the one who did it—who pushed me to the floor, that is—and I can see him hovering over me. Protectively. Then he leaps forward, blade springing into hot, azure life, and…

Well, nothing. No more action. No more imminent death streaking through the gaping window, hoping to sear through me; it's just me, Obi-Wan, and the throaty humming of his blade.

Letting his blade shrink back into hilt, Obi-Wan releases a breath he's been withholding for an eternity. And maybe…maybe he has. It's difficult to say how much time has passed since that initial shot, yes—but for some reason, I think that an hour has trickled by. A notion that's (kind of) confirmed as Obi-Wan stoops beside me, his outline framed by the first shafts of pink morning light.

"Are you alright, Satine?"

Despite the fact that his protective body-slam gifted my tailbone with a nasty bruise… "Yes, yes. I'm fine." I glance past his shoulder, blinking against the rosy morning. "Did you happen to see whoever it was?"

A shake of the head. "Unfortunately, no. Whoever it was, he or she fled the moment the shots were fired. He simply…vanished." He plucks something out of his robes, laying it flat on his palm for me to see. "But whoever our would-assassin was, he happened to leave this behind: his blaster's powerpack. And this isn't for any old blaster; it's a Kintar 1138, a model that was discontinued around two centuries ago. So wherever this came from, I'm betting that it wasn't acquired legally."

"You think you can track it, then?"

"Possibly. But even if I'm unable to find any record of a stolen Kintar, the weapon is to rare to remain inconspicuous for long." He stuffs the powerpack back into his robes, then fingers his beard. "Anyhow, the police should be arriving in a few moments, so I suggest you get dressed before they begin tearing your apartment to pieces."

"Wait a moment…" I touch my forehead warily, as if I'm not entirely certain it's still there. Feel cold, clammy skin. Skin that's strayed far, far too close to crossing over into…whatever lies beyond. "How long ago was the shooting."

"Only a few minutes ago," he answers, frowning gently. As if I'm a particularly daft child who needs patronizing. "How much time did you think had passed?"

"Enough for the sun to rise."

"Ah. Well, dawn usually appears at unexpected times, my friend. And it always seems to make an appearance when we're done needing it."

_**(SIRI)**_

Time—it's a funny thing, really. Reality tells that it always marches on, pushing us toward the final breath, unraveling the universe second by second. It laps incessantly at our shores, drawing the sand into its ravenous maw; it takes and robs and wrings dry. Partially is never shown, its heavy blows delivered with the oblivion particular to justice—because in the end, we all will bow to its whims. Will reach the end of our brief, anguished existences and realize that life was merely a game of chase between us and time.

And time wins, always.

Yet there are moments when reality bends. Refracts the light and distorts truth, leaving us gazing into something altogether different. Like when time itself seems to slow, trickling by in a sweet, viscous river, we believe we've won the race. That we've come up on top.

We believe we will go on—forever.

But—no. We won't. Can't. And I won't say that I believe we ever will beat time, outrunning the final stroke of the clock—because I honestly, I don't believe we can. Will. I'm just mulling over the message Obi-Wan left me—that's all.

_ "We were attacked in the dead of night…but by the time the police responded, it was already morning. Curious, isn't it? It makes me wonder…"_

Wonder what, exactly? If we _can_ slow time, bend it to our fragile will? If we can reach whatever beyond this, beyond the here and the now and be _there_—wherever that is?

As I mill haplessly through the Temple's hall, I find myself turning things over in my own mind as well. The things Culmon Ash disclosed to me were…interesting. And new—at least, to my ears, anyway. No telling who else was caught wind of what she knows…or what they'll do with the information.

So here's what happened to Komari Vosa: time caught her. Just not in the tidy, mundane way—but really, whose death is ever clean? Most ends aren't met in such loud, bloody ways, yes. But to be ensnared by time, to have its fingers close tight about your neck—isn't that just as horrific? It's just that other _codas_ appear to be more grandiose, more violent, shrieking—like Vosa's, for instance.

Time caught wearing the form of Jango Fett.

Which really begins to complicate things, once you think about it. I mean, Fett was a Mandalorian, right? So their targeting of Satine was…vindication? Revenge served ice-cold?

Maybe that's why they sought refuge on the Neutral Systems in the first place: because it'd lend them a platform to stage an attack.

Sighing, I fish around my body-suit's pockets. Pull out a comm.-link. Activate it with a jab from my thumb, only to find that he's already on the line. "_Siri, have you received any reports from the criminology team? You know—the one heading up the investigation of that woman's assassination?"_

I frown into the 'link. "No, actually. That message you sent this morning about an attack was the first update I've received from, well, _anyone_." Lowering my voice an octave, I ask, "Were you really attacked?"

_"Really. We're not entirely certain who the attacker was, though—unfortunately, they disappeared before I could get a good look. But whoever it was, he/she/it used a Kintar 1138—and they seemed to have revealed this on purpose. That's only explanation I have for my finding the Kintar's powerpack, that is."_

"You think he or she wants you to come after them," I say flatly.

"_The thought _did_ cross my mind, yes. So this assassin is either gravely overestimating his abilities, or he's far deadlier opponent than I first imagined. Leading a Jedi into a trap is rather…daring…after all."_

Massaging my temples, I grunt an agreement. "Well, you and I both know where Kintars are usually found, Obi-Wan." And we do. But—no, I don't want to. Don't wish to know this, to be right about the suspicion snaking up my limbs. "Perhaps that's the best place to start."

"_Kintars are not limited to the Jedi armory, Siri."_

"True," I admit, "but there's a heck of a lot of them there, though. Any Jedi—particularly Jedi who might've had ties with Vosa—could've made off with one."

I picture him kneading wearily at his temples. "_And just how do you suggest we investigate the armory without, say, raising anyone's suspicions?"_

A grim smile tugs at my lips. "Leave that to me. If you can, be sure to meet me in the armory at—"

_"Siri, I can't. I've…other things to attend to. Important things._"

Smile melting, I stare at my comm.-link, bemused. At first, I think he's referring to his side of the investigation—like, maybe he's probing the scene of last night's attack or something. But then my mind plucks something out of my recent memory, coiling desperate fingers about its fresh echo: _"_we're_ not entirely certain who the attacker was."_ _We_, not _I_. Not _me_ solely, but someone else—someone he'd rather not disclose.

Then my face falls, slips into a dour scowl. No, he won't give me a name, won't disclose the identity of the being he was with last night. And no, I'm not gonna ask him, either—because I already know. Have guessed, and am pretty darn certain that I've unmasked his mystery companion, peeling away the shroud to gaze into a fair, infuriatingly appealing (more appealing than mine, anyway) face.

"Oh," I say, more in response to my musings than to his words. "I, ah, understand. Completely." Drying my sweaty palms on the hips of my body suit, I clear my throat. "Do you care to hear what I learned from Culmon Ash?"

"_Do tell, old friend._"

"Alrighty, then…" I mutter, then launch into a hurried synopsis of my meeting with Ash. Like that thing about Fett, for instance. Or how I believe that the Bando-gora's specifically targeting Satine, that the entire Neutral System's thing was a cover. A veneer to conceal their truest heart: their fixation on revenge.

"And," I continue, lowering my voice to a breathy whisper, "there's something else: the Bando-gora possess an astonishing array of psychic powers. Including what Culmon called, quote-on-quote, 'domineering telepathy'."

_"That hardly sounds pleasant."_

"It isn't. According to Culmon, the Bando-gora implement this technique to force their will upon other beings. They can invade their psyches, bend their thoughts to their whims, erode their mental endurance; in the end, their victims practically _give_ them their minds."

The lull in conversation is so lengthy, I can easily picture him staring in his 'link, dumb-founded. "_Satine said something to me along those lines: 'give me your mind.' And she hasn't been…herself…lately. Not quite._" Another pause. "_Does each individual Bando-gora follow their own will, or are they still bound to Vosa's?_"

My eyes roll toward the ceiling, scanning its pristine, ivory tracks. "Well, maybe—but I can't be sure. Do you think she's, uh, behaving specifically _like _Vosa?"

"_It's possible, yes._"

"Then you should probably bring her here, Obi-Wan. Have the Temple Healers take a look at her."

"_I will. And Siri?"_

"Yeah?"

"_I know you believe there's something between Satine and I. I can sense it, hear it in your voice. But you have to understand that whatever happens, whatever becomes of this entire Bando-gora affair, I still love y—"_

With a jab of my thumb, I disconnect the link, wincing against the white-hot sting of ice. I _want_ to thaw, actually. I do. But once more the prison's flaring up, commanding me to remain inside, and I have to comply. That's the story of my life, really—compliance. My will bending to another's, melting beneath their influence till the thawing has turned to freezing. To pure, unfeeling ice.

I refuse to let him in, to allow his love and touch and attention to thaw me—because I can't. _We_ can't, thanks to the blasted Code. And yet…

No. No, I won't. That's too impossible, too painful—and I'm far, far too vulnerable. Am too soft, too fragile where I'm not ice—if there's even anything left of me that hasn't yielded to winter.

So I can't let him in.

But I can get within him, drinking deeply of…"love".


	4. Chapter 4

___**(AHSOKA)**_

So, apparently I'm done nailing holes. Sorta. I mean, Master Kenobi didn't say that explicitly in his message or anything (he just ordered me to watch the entrance to this blasted armory, actually)—but it was kinda implied. As if he were agreeing with me, admitting that Master Skywalker nail assignment utterly…well, _sucks_.

Not that this is all that exciting, either. I'm just crouching here behind this dated statue, my thighs burning and my neck already wrought with knots and cricks—and so far, nothing good has happened. No action. Nothing to see. Blast it, no one has even so much as _wandered by_, leaving me to believe that Master Kenobi has just invented a far worse task than senselessly nailing boards.

Well done.

Just as I'm about to admit defeat, my eyes catch the trace of a shadow looming near, and I wait. And watch. And wait—until I pick out the shape hovering over the shadow, its substance cloaked in a dark, billowing cowl that's blacker than a starless night. Unfortunately, that robe also obscures the being's shape, so I'm unable to determine whether it's a male or a female. Can't make out any distinguishable form whatsoever as the robed being wafts in, seemingly skimming the floor on invisible feet.

A minute drips by, painfully slow. Then two. Then it's ten, fifteen, thirty, and the being still hasn't come out, a fact which begins to worry me. Master Kenobi said to watch out for a thief, or someone performing an inventory—and since I suspect that this shadowy individual isn't the type who'd be here to do the latter, I get the feeling that something under-handed is going down in that armory.

Good thing I took an inventory of my own (per order of Master Obi-Wan, of course) before I set up watch. As instructed, I only numbered the Kintar blasters, of which I counted approximately nineteen. Strange, though: according to Master Kenobi, there should've been twenty Kintars. So either one was already missing when I conducted my little inventory, or I totally miscounted—but I doubt that. I rifled through (no pun intended) those blasters, like, four times, and still I kept up coming up with nineteen. With no doubts about it.

And then…then the being finally slithers out, his robe swishing furiously about his seemingly non-existent feet. He pauses a moment, head swiveling from side to side, and the force roils with his probing senses. Maybe he's felt me, detected my presence cowering behind this statue—but that's another thing that I find highly doubtful. You see, Master Skywalker has taught me a thing or two about vanishing, and when the need arises, I can simply…disappear. Shrink and clench and muddy my presence tills it nothing more than indeterminate smudge wafting through the force.

Still, I can't help but hold my breath until I'm certain he's slipped far, far away.

I take even longer to muster up the courage to contact Master Kenobi.

"_Kenobi here_," he says, somewhat sleepily. "_This is Ahsoka, I presume?"_

"Yeah. It's me. I…" I pause, brow furrowing. "Uh, is something going on? You sound kinda tired."

"_I had to stay up with a friend last night. A sick friend—but she's better now. The Jedi Healers can do wonders, you know."_

"Well, that's…good."

"_It is, but I have a feeling that you didn't contact me to discuss Jedi healing practices."_

"Right." I launch into my encounter with the mysterious being: how he/she/it slunk into the armory, it robes rippling about its seemingly non-existent legs. How it remained in that room for a long while—too long, really—and didn't appear to be taking its time. How it disappeared afterwards, dissolving, fading into…wherever. "But I haven't had a chance to take another inventory," I add. "Actually, I'm still sorta scared that he's going to come back."

"_Just sit tight, padawan. I'll be on my way in a—"_

His sentence is swallowed up in a cacophony of sounds, filling my ears to the brim. There's a loud _crack_, the noise seemingly radiating through my skull, sending it whipping back against my neck; there's a gasp, the tell-tale yelp of air escaping lungs. Or being forced from them—but honestly, it's difficult to determine which. All I can say is, the noises on the other end of the connection sound so close, they might actually be happening here.

And then pain begins to radiate through my head, and I know it is. Know it's happening. Here. To me.

My comm.-link slips from my hand, clattering to the floor.

"_Ahsoka!_" That's Obi-Wan's voice, still ringing clear through the active 'link. "_What just happened? I thought I heard a—"_

A body slams into both me and the 'link, sending us spiraling into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

___**(SATINE)**_

I'm just emerging from dreamless sleep when Obi-Wan slips into the room, kneading his temples. Grim resolution paints his features white—whiter than the Temple's Halls of Healing, than its pure, pristine glow. Whiter than the clarity the Jedi Healers have given my mind after they purged it of all echoes of the Bando-Gora.

Apparently, coming into _any_ contact with a Bando-Goran puts your mind at risk of coming under their influence—which is what happened to me. At least, I think this is the case. Kind of. There are incognito Bando-Gorans on Mandalore, after all, where they mingle and mix with the people like sickness through blood; so it's entirely possible that I crossed paths with one recently, enabling them to assume control over my mind.

I haven't told anyone any of this, but I also suspect that my awakened—if not heightened—attraction toward Obi-Wan was an echo of the late Bando-Goran leader, a woman the Jedi refer to as "Vosa". From what the healers tell me, she was once infatuated with another Jedi—with her Master, in fact—and as result, was expelled from the Order with a qualm. Bitter and still inflamed with vicious, needy love, Vosa conceived a plan to both woo and scourge: by exercising her skill and prowess as a psychic, she drew the attention of her Master…and enforced her own troubled mind on her followers. She imbued them with her lust, her desire, her overweening passion—which is what's been eating away me, I guess. Because in the past, I wasn't attracted to Obi-Wan in the primarily carnal sense.

I loved him for his heart.

And I still love him now, but in a different fashion. I want him to be mine, yes, to grow old with me and watch as both unravel under the fist of time. But now, I recognize that this is impossible, that his heart beats harder for the Order than for any sol being—so I surrender to this. I admit defeat, acknowledge that I will never, ever, receive requited love from Obi-Wan Kenobi.

For now, I'm alright with that.

Speaking of Obi-Wan, he wilts into a nearby chair, gaze fixated on some distant, unseen point. Then he screws his eyes closed. Tightly.

"Something's gone wrong, hasn't it?" I demand, lifting my head from an over-stuffed pillow.

"It has," he admits, kneading once more at his temples. He slumps back into his chair. "I think the assassin's been hiding under noses this entire time."

"It's a Jedi."

"I believe so, yes. And I think I know _which_ Jedi, too—so now it's only a matter of finding this assassin." He drags a hand over his face. "I haven't much time, either, given some recent developments. But I wanted to let you know that you were right. Right about me and Siri—just not in the total sense. I loved her, yes—and I still love her to this day. But I only love my idea of her, really, because I hardly had time to know her as a lover; instead of our year-long love, she and I were only permitted a day or so before circumstance intervened.

"I only want to know her—but seeing how she prefers freezing me out, I don't think that will be happening anytime soon."

Then he just…falls silent. Stands. Give me one long, final look before turning away, heading toward the door.

And into force-knows-what.


	6. Chapter 6

_**SIRI **_

It's happening, I think. The warming of my inner self, of the parts I've hidden and clutched tight for so long—it's started. The ice—it's melting. Dripping away in wet drops, pat-pattering on the floor in a tuneless melody. And yet…I don't believe that this warming is the right kind, the kind that'll set me free, let my spread in open dawn.

I am warming, but I am not thawed.

I'm draining away.

As I sit alone in my quarters, facing an empty, dark wall, I find myself more of myself slip away, soaking into thirsty ground. I am no longer Siri, the bright-eyed eighteen-year-old who once fell head-over heels for her Obi-Wan; I'm just here. Existing. Not dead, but not fully alive, either. Caught in between worlds, where I'm offered the stunning clarity of limbo: Obi-Wan might be that same bright-eyed eighteen-year-old, the one who fell head-over heels for…me.

But that's real problem, isn't it? If Siri no longer exists—then who is for him latch onto, to channel that unrequited love into? Not Satine, surely; judging by how he's acting, that was over a long time ago. Except he _was_ at her apartment that night of the sniping, brushing against like land and sky—

No. That didn't happen. Siri didn't see that. _Couldn't_ have seen that, because she was here, sleeping. Or trying to. Was probably gazing into cold, grey wall like with colder, greyer eyes—just like I am now.

And then the knock comes: _tap, tap, tap_. Siri gets to her feet, sighing; so do I. Siri hears his voice, recognizes it, slides open the door to let his shadow fall across me; I follow suit. We are in tandem, Siri and I, our auras so closely wound that it is impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends. Unravels. Falls, falls, falls into black.

Maybe I _am_ still Siri. Or maybe I'm not. Honestly, I can't tell anymore—but gazing out at him, at Obi-Wan, I watch his face melt away to reveal someone I've never seen before.

He looks like he doesn't want to be here. With me. With the girl he once held in his arms, his breath stirring blond, satin hair and alien passions.

Maybe he's finally realized that I stopped being Siri that moment we were forced apart.

His eyes, all glossy regret and looming pain, meet mine with an effort. With a hint of hesitation. It's—it's more like he _has_ to be here, I guess. It's duty, nothing more. And whatever that duty is, it's wearing on him like desert winds scouring blanched bones.

He swallows painfully, slowly. "Where is she?"

Siri and I—or maybe it's just me, if Siri died when he and I went our separate ways—blink. "Where's _who_, Obi-Wan? Satine?"

"No, no. Not Satine. I'm looking for a girl—a togruta." His eyes drift downward, absorbed in my bare feet. "If you don't know where she is, then someone else does. Someone you know."

"I don't know any togrutas beside Shaak Ti, honest. Maybe you could ask her about—"

He cuts me off with a long, difficult look. "You were right about the armory, Siri."

Beneath Siri's serene demeanor, I find myself wanting to…what, exactly? Melt? Thaw? Draw him in, drink deeply of that love I once wanted so badly? "I was?"

A hesitant nod. "You were. The togruta I'm looking for—she took an inventory of the Kintars, Siri. Found that one was missing, then observed someone sneaking in." His lips thin as he adds, "I did my own inventory, after the togruta—Ahsoka- went missing. And I found that they all there, all accounted for—as if that being who'd slinked in had bothered to return the Kintar back to its place."

Siri and I frown. "And what does this 'Ahsoka' have to do with anything?"

"I believe," he says, eyes drawing near to wintery, "that whoever replaced that Kintar has taken Ahsoka. And I'm not entirely certain that this someone realizes what they've done, either."

For me, his words are a trigger. For want. For pure, animal need. I want to drink deeply, take him in thick, thick droves—yet somehow, it's not love I want. It's not even close.

I want dismemberment.

I want him _gone_.

But oddly, Siri doesn't. She's a more of a civilian in this entire thing, really. A witness who gazes on, frozen in place, as thrust my amethyst blade at Obi-Wan's chest. She's gasps, holds her breath; then she lets it out in a windy sigh as he side-step the blades, twisting away from my door.

"It's not you, Siri!" he insists, backing further into the hall. "Remember what you told me about the Bando-Gora, about their psychic powers? That's what's happening—they're using it on you. To kill the Duchess."

Siri falls to her knees, floored by the implications of what he's just said; I growl. Launch myself through my open doorway, twisting through the air with a resounding scream. My blade hacks and slice and swipes, hoping to catch a piece of him, to melt through bone and the pink of skin, but he's too quick. He's ducks, rolls, flips through the air to evade my attacks—but not once does he draw his own weapon. It simply remains where it is, swinging and slapping against his hip as his body carves patterns in the hall.

"Use your bloody lightsaber," I growl, thrusting my blade toward his gut.

"No," he pants, my blade coming within inches of impaling his midriff. "I'm not fighting you. You're the one who needs to fight—fight against _them_."

Breathing hard, I withdraw a few steps. Siri isn't trained to maintain this level of intensity for long. Actually, Siri's pretty tough, I guess—she's got a lot in the ways of endurance, has perfected the art of pushing herself far beyond conceived limits. But she isn't accustomed to being fueled by…whatever this is. By rage. By wild, feral wrath.

She isn't used to being fueled by me.

"Can't you feel it?" he continues, eyes dangerously close to spilling rivers. "They're there, in your head. The Bando-Gora. They met you once, and now they're able to take you over. To control you."

Siri hears him, listens. Knows he could be right. That maybe, just maybe, he is—but I ignore that. I simply make another lunge toward Obi-Wan, my vision bleared with the scarlet veil of rage as I watch him dance away from my blade.

Breathing catching in his chest, Obi-Wan retreats further down the hall. Sweat sheens his face and neck, making him appear as if he's emerged from a downpour, and his skin is going wan. Beneath his tunic, his rib cage is heaving hard, desperate to unhinge their prison doors and let air rush in. To feed his flagging, weary body before something…falls.

Siri urges to him to breath. To rest. Before something collapses, slips, twists to the floor.

I don't.

The force surges around me, black. Drawing on its powers, drinking deeply, lovingly, I reach out, touch Obi-Wan with its powers. Wind its tendrils around his throat, squeezing hard with fingers I feel but can't see, and watch his struggle for air rise to a deafening crescendo.

"Siri," he gasps, clawing uselessly at his throat. "Please…reconsider. It's…no use. The temple's…on…lockdown. Everyone on this floor…has evacuated. To the upper…chambers."

While Siri retches at the sight of me strangling her one-time lover, I smile devilishly. "Good. Then no one will come to rescue you."

"Then I…can say something I've been wanting to say…for a long time: I lo—"

I scream, shattering all the glass in my mind. No. No, no, _no_. He's not saying it, isn't thawing what's left of Siri. Isn't lending her strength with three simple words.

My hold on his throats tightens, they still get through:

"I loved you."

I freeze, my grip slackening for an ice-garbed moment. Then I blink. And so does Siri, because she heard it, too: _loved_. Past tense. Not alive and here and in the moment, but in days gone by. Day long gone. Through. Over.

He loved me.

"I…loved you, once," he rasps, skin blanching to blue-veined porcelain. "And I…still do…but in a different…way. I want…" His eyes flicker, perilously close to fading to grey. "…I want you to be my…friend. I…always have, ever since…we stopped being…in love. But you…shut me out. And I shut out…Satine. But we can…go back. All of us. We can…be…

"…friends."

"No," Siri whispers beneath my howls. "We can't go back there. It's too late."

"No," he whispers in return. "I'm not talking about…going back. I'm talking about…starting over."

And that's when Siri sees it, rising in her mind like dawn spreading over night: this is what she's feared. This is why she has retreated to non-winter, has shackled and bound herself within her tundra prison. Why she's retreated from the very idea, why she avoided him in the halls or failed to return his smiles.

She is afraid of starting over.

Because starting over…that's a kind of resuscitation, really. A resurrection. And for something to be brought back to life, stolen away from the grave—that's means it has to die.

The wounds go too deep, have been driven too far for anything else.

Siri stands on the precipice, teetering. Counting the cost. Then she closes her eyes, breathes deep, and lets herself tumble over the edge.

And I fall with her.


	7. Epilogue

_**Epilogue**_

_**(Obi-Wan)**_

_ As the Temple Healers waft between Satine and Siri's beds, I stare into my reflection, warbled by the window's frosted glass. I suppose the sick are better viewed from such places, I've learned. Too much clarity, too few objects barring your view, and you might actually _see_ something. And what your eyes find…you might just wish they hadn't._

_ The Healer's tell me that Siri's been induced into a coma, explaining that this is the best way to purify her mind of the Bando-Gora's rankling stench. They had quite a hold on her, they say—stronger than what was bound around Satine, in fact. If she hadn't collapsed when she did, floor rushing to meet her boneless form, she might've been destroyed completely. Ground to a pulp by the Bando-Gora's cruel, cruel will._

_ According to Culmon Ash, it _is_ entirely possible that the Bando-Gorans have adopted Vosa's twisted, soured mind. Because maybe they have suffered the same fate as Satine and Siri: they've been taken over, infused with another's heart. With another's hell-bent desire for revenge on the man who refused to look, look, look at her._

_ Someday, they'll collapse as well._

_ But for now, we watch. Wait. And hope, pray they don't take hold of anyone else's mind._

_ Luckily, Siri won't remember any of this. She won't be haunted with nightmare's of assassinating that innocent woman by the tea shop, won't relive the splitting scream that only the dying can manage. And she won't recall taking a shot at me or Satine, either; in fact, I don't think she'll remember her at all. The Temple Healers aren't taking any chances, after all, and have made certain that their memory wipes have erased all traces of even the faintest echo of the Bando-Gora._

_ Oh, and she won't remember stealing the Kintars, either. Or that strands of her hair have been found within the armory, next to a Kintar that's missing its power pack. Won't recall that business with Ahsoka, either (Culmon found her in Siri's closet, unconscious but otherwise unhurt), and with any luck, neither will she._

_ I hope she never discovers that I convinced the Justice Department to grant her amnesty, either. She'd be…cross. But I wouldn't mind if she raged and ranted at me, as long as she's safe._

_ If I hadn't requested amnesty, she'd possibly be facing capital charges._

_ Shivering in the midst of this harsh, anti-septic room, I close my eyes. Satine's not in as bad of shape as Siri (like I said earlier, the Bando-Gorans hadn't had that the potent of a sway over her), but she's still going to have her mind wiped. Scrubbed clean and raw of all thing Bando-Goran. Only…well, I've asked the Healers to keep her past well intact, because we have things to discuss. Things to work through._

_ Hopefully, they haven't unraveled too much of Siri's past, either. _

_ Sighing, I open my eyes. Stare down at the silly little board in my hands, and have to smile. It's a rueful one, yes—but at least I'm trying._

_ The board—it's Ahsoka's, actually, the one her Master wanted her to fill with nails. Like the one I had _him_ fill, when he was her age. Or the one my master gave to me, watching with sad eyes as I pounded away, driving nail after nail into stubborn wood._

_ Don't tell Anakin, but I opted to complete Ahsoka's maddening task for her. I mean, it's the least I can do, after all that's happened. And besides, I think I need to reminisce a little, let the blasted little board impart its lesson once more._

_ It took some doing, but I finally got all the nails driven in to their heads. And then I pulled, plucked them out, one by one, till the board was nail-free. Empty, save for the holes. The holes that would forever mar the wood's surface, gaping reminders that the past will forever linger on, indelible. _

_ Once a hole has been made, it can never be undone. It can be filled, yes. Can be covered with dirt or ashes or the blanched remnants of the dead—but it cannot return to what it was. Will never, ever be the same._

_ But then there's the final step in the lesson, the part that I've left for Ahsoka: you see the holes. Recognize that they cannot, will not be removed, and set it ablaze. Watch as the spark twist, rise, leap into the air…then get a new board. A clean slate._

_ And this time around, we—Satine, Siri, and I-will be careful not to drive in so many nails._


End file.
